


An Ache in You (Put There by the Ache in Me)

by jackiefreckles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Filipino Bellamy Blake, Modern AU, Pining, cheating hearts, clarke goes to Harvard DUH, everyone just wants clarke and bellamy to be happy for christ's sake, misunderstandings that lead to more pining, thank you taylor swift for inspiring this fic, tis the damn season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28578369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackiefreckles/pseuds/jackiefreckles
Summary: Clarke and Bellamy couldn't make their relationship work after high school, but they still find their way to each other over the Christmas holidays.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Gina Martin, John Murphy/Emori
Comments: 25
Kudos: 86





	An Ache in You (Put There by the Ache in Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone's making 'tis the Damn Season fics, here's my contribution.

Clarke drives to Arkadia like she didn’t tell Lexa she was headed to Murphy’s, like her mom is going to be home instead of in Hawaii, like her father’s in the kitchen instead of the cemetery.

She drives to Arkadia like she’s going home, and skips the impersonal McMansion her mother owns, heading straight to the peeling clapboard house on Magnolia Lane. She parks on the road and runs lightly across the perfectly kept yard, hammers on the door, and tries to keep herself warm until Octavia bursts onto the porch with a smile like sunshine and wraps her skinny arms around Clarke’s neck. 

She drives to Arkadia because the Blakes are there, and that’s as good as going home--actually, better, and as she falls into the hallway and throws her coat over the staircase, the house smells like Filipino food and pine trees. She shakes off the blowout fight with Lexa to hear Octavia announce:

“Look who I found on the front porch!”

And Aurora Blake turns around and pretends to be surprised that it’s Clarke, just like she pretends every year. 

“My blonde daughter!” Her voice is full of affection, her arms open, and Clarke falls against her apron-ed chest even though it’s covered in flour, squeezing her tight.

“And Lola! Oh my god, is that lumpia?” Clarke snatches one from the plate and kisses the older woman’s cheek, “I dream about your lumpia, I swear, I found this Filipino restaurant near the school but it’s just not the same…”

“They don’t make it with love,” Lola says, flipping another batch out of frying oil and on to a plate covered with Christmas-themed paper towels. “You have good timing, tonight’s adobo chicken, your favorite.”

“I’ll set another plate,” Octavia grabs the plates from the cabinet and Clarke reaches for the silverware drawer. Aurora passes them glasses--five, Clarke counts, so he _will_ be here--but she doesn’t need to try and be subtle, because Aurora tells her,

“Bellamy’s going to be thrilled to see you. He should be home any moment.”

And almost in the same minute, the front door slams, the house shakes, and Bellamy yells, 

“Holy shit, it smells amazing in here! Hey, is that Clarke’s car?”

Of course it’s her car--whose else would it be, with the peeling gay pride flag and the Harvard sticker Lexa insisted she put on the bumper, because, _my girl’s smart and everyone should know it._

Clarke takes a breath, shakes off the way her eyes are stinging just at the sound of his voice, casually picks up another lumpia. She’s leaning against the counter with a little smile on her face when he comes through the kitchen doorway in a fair isle sweater. 

And he gives a little whoop, like he wasn’t expecting to see her there.

Like she’s an unexpected Christmas gift. 

Like they don’t do this every single year.

“Wow,” he loops an arm around his mother’s waist. “All of my favorite girls are here.”

“Oh yeah?” Octavia makes a slight face, something unknowable there, “All of them, huh?”

“All the ones I want to be here right now,” and he gives his sister a _look_ , and she gives him one right back.

“How’s Gina?” Clarke says pointedly, so that Bellamy and Octavia can stop pretending they’re not having the same argument they had last year.

Aurora gives a little sniff. It isn’t that she doesn’t like Gina, that’s not it exactly. She just likes Clarke a little more. 

Bellamy tugs at the hair over his left ear like he’s eight. He gets an earnest, sweet smile, and Gina deserves that--she’s an earnest, sweet girl. 

“She’s great. She’s, uh, yeah, she’s great, she graduates in the spring. She’s spending Christmas with her parents this year,” like she does every damn year, and Clarke knows why, “and we’re going to celebrate at her place for New Year’s.”

A version of this is exactly what Clarke heard last Christmas, same as she’ll probably hear next. And she’s met Gina, Thanksgiving two years ago, when Bellamy first started dating her, and Clarke was summoned home unexpectedly to be informed by her mother that she was thinking of remarrying. Clarke’d moped over to the Blake house looking for sympathy, had ended up meeting Gina (didn’t even know Bellamy was dating someone) pretending she was just dropping by for a quick hello on her way back to Cambridge, and ended up sobbing hysterically parked in front of the high school.

She nearly didn’t come home that Christmas, but she got an unexpected text from Bellamy: **see you soon**? the Sunday before the holiday, and she’d lied right to Lexa’s face about her mom being sick and drove hell to leather straight to see him.

They didn’t talk about Gina, but Octavia (the Blake who does send Clarke text messages) has given Clarke the downlow: an aspiring kindergarten teacher, part-time bartender, all-around-likeable girl, who wants 2 kids and a house and a dog and _the whole nine_ and that right there is the fucking problem, because Bellamy wants those things too, and Clarke does not. That’s why she broke up with him, and that’s why they only let themselves have one stolen Christmas weekend a year.

Which Clarke has realized has to come to an end. This is the last year. If they keep going, they’re going to have to keep lying, and the lies will only get bigger, the betrayals only worse, and she doesn’t want to be the reason Bellamy is lying to and betraying the woman he should probably go ahead and marry.

And there’s Lexa, too, and the apartments they’re touring together, and the _when are you going to take me home to meet your mom_ , and the hints that even though they don’t want kids or suburban houses or backyards to mow, maybe weddings aren’t actually that bad? 

Bellamy is going to be blindsided, Clarke knows this, but he is also probably going to be resigned, and agreeable, and know it’s the right thing. She’s sure of that, even as he’s handing her the rice paddle with fondness in his eyes. He’s going to know this is for the best. 

After they pray over the meal Octavia turns to Clarke with a wicked grin and informs her:

“Lola’s got a BOYFRIEND.”

“Lola,” Clarke whispers, shocked, “is this true?”

The age, health, handsomeness, wealth, and personal life story of Lola’s boyfriend drives the dinner conversation. Bellamy is disapproving, but Aurora and Octavia adore “Jack” and his collection of vintage silk ascots. 

They drink a lot of wine with dinner, and at one point Clarke informs Lola: 

“It’s just that you’re such a catch. You want to keep your options open.”

“Jack has three ex wives,” Lola demurs, “he’s a real ladies’ man.”

“Did any of them know how to make lumpia?!” Clarke practically yells, gesturing widely with her wineglass, “did any of them know how to make those--those--whaddya call, we had ‘em at Octavia’s graduation, sticky ricey coconutty things?”

“Biko,” Lola reminds her, just like she does every single time Clarke can’t remember the name of any given Filipino dish, which is often. 

“Biko. Oh my god, those things are amazing, Lola, never be with a man who doesn’t appreciate your biko.”

Octavia, also wine-drunk, is giggling into her sleeve. Bellamy collects their glasses, shaking his head, rattling drawers for foil and saran wrap and tupperware.

“Send Clarke home with lumpia--” Lola fusses in the kitchen, “--you know her mother doesn’t keep any food in that house.”

Abby Griffin’s failings are well known, but Aurora always tries to be kind about them. Lola has no such qualms, has always complained about Clarke’s skinny legs and empty home, and lit candles for her soul because there’s no one to pray for her, Abby being such a heathen and all. 

They play a loud, spirited, competitive game of Charades, and Octavia complains that Clarke and Bellamy shouldn’t be allowed to be on the same team so Bellamy and Octavia face off with Aurora and Clarke, and Lola accidentally cheats by screaming out the answer. 

Clarke’s half-drunk with exhaustion when her wine wears off, but she doesn’t want to go home yet. She hasn’t been alone with Bellamy. He catches sight of her face, and there’s probably longing and sadness and nostalgia all mixed up with a smile she’s trying to give to Aurora while they wash the dishes because he says, 

“Clarke, come with me while I drive Lola home,” and Octavia says,

“I want to come, too! We can look at Christmas lights,” but before Bellamy can think of an excuse Aurora takes pity on him and says:

“No, Octavia, I need help finishing the dishes.”

Clarke thanks her with a kiss on the cheek, promises to come back tomorrow, shrugs on her coat and steadies Lola on her arm before they go onto the icy driveway. 

She nearly falls asleep in the back seat, radio playing nineties rock low, Lola speaking quietly to Bellamy in Tagalog, which means she’s probably talking about Clarke.

Clarke would say it’s rude but she doesn’t care. She’s missed the sound of them arguing in a language she thinks is specifically theirs, codeswitching between Tagalog and English so fast it’s dizzying, until Bellamy finally says in English,

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

And she snaps back, also in English, 

“Not talking about it won’t make it go away!” And then switches back to a long stream of Tagalog, which she punctuates by pressing her bony finger into his arm.

He’s silent, but catches Clarke’s eyes in the rearview mirror. That muscle in his jaw that means he’s angry is working overtime, fists clenched on the steering wheel, but he still navigates carefully through town. 

Lola asks Clarke to walk her to the door, and she leans heavily on the younger woman.

On the stoop she says to Clarke:

“He loves you.”

And Clarke says:

“I love him, too,” before she can think of a lie, then amends: “I love you all. You know you’re my family.”

Lola nods sadly, drifting through the door, she brushes a curl from Clarke’s cheek.

“That’s the worst part,” Lola’s voice is deeply mournful. She clasps Clarke’s hand, opens her mouth, shakes her head. “We all care about you very much, Clarke. We want you to be happy.”

Clarke begins to protest that she is happy, but Lola tightens her grip and then lets go.

“Don’t lie to me, please, I’m too tired for that. Good night.”

Bellamy’s turned up the heater in his Rover, and Clarke shivers in the passenger seat until the air warms up. She thinks about Lola’s words, and Bellamy must be able to see the sentence in the air above her head because he says, nearly immediately, 

“What did she say to you?”

Clarke thinks about lying, she really does, but instead she starts the conversation she didn’t want to have for three more days. 

“She thinks I’m unhappy. And I am...because this is the last time we can…” She waves her hand around in the air in front of her face. “Do this.”

Bellamy pulls into the Blakes’ driveway but they don’t get out of the car, he looks straight ahead, while she peers at his profile and tries to judge how he’s taking her decision. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” he finally asks, after what feels like an eternity. “You mean...us? Are you not...interested in me anymore?” The hurt in his voice slices at her skin like a knife, little cuts all over her body, she didn’t think he would take it like this. 

“No! That’s not what I mean at all! It’s--we’re both in serious relationships now, and every time we meet, we’re hurting the people we love. They don’t know it, but we are.”

“If we don’t meet, we’ll still be hurting the people we love. You’ll be hurting me. Will I be hurting you?” Bellamy finally turns to look her in the face. “I know it’s wrong, but I’d rather hurt Gina than hurt you.” 

“Fuck,” Clarke whispers. “I didn’t want to know that. If I wanted to know that, I would have asked.” 

He touches her jawline, moves to kiss her. “I always try to tell you the truth.” 

She meets his lips but whispers into them, “But you’re willing to lie to Gina?”

“Gina’s different.” He pulls back from her. “There’s no one in this world--not even her--that I can be myself with the way I can be myself when I’m with you. I spend the whole year waiting for Christmas. And you want to change that?”

“You’ll still see me sometimes. I’ll come visit--your mom, Octavia, Lola--they’re like family to me.” Clarke’s trying not to cry, trying not to think about how hard it will be to see Bellamy but not own Bellamy, heart and soul, the way she has since they were teenagers. 

“So you’ll still be here but I can’t have you?” He sounds like a child.

“You can have me this weekend,” she tells him. “One last time.”

Bellamy’s trying to read her face. He’s trying to decide if he can argue his way out of this. He finally agrees in a wary voice: “One last time,” and she moves forward, devouring his lips, balling her fists up in his jacket, and he slides the seat back so she can sit in his lap, facing him. 

And they own each other, heart and soul, if only for the weekend. 

When Clarke drives home and jogs up the stairs to the empty, cold house, she realizes she should’ve just slept over with Octavia as she has so many times before. But then, that might’ve led to a game of twenty questions about the status of her relationship with Lexa, who Clarke does _not_ want to talk about, or perhaps a quiz on what’s going on with her and Bellamy, which isn’t a conversation she wants to have with his little sister.

Lexa’s left her two voicemails and 15 text messages, one of which says, “I can’t believe you’re doing this on Christmas.” Which makes her feel vaguely guilty for the timing, and then guilty for not feeling guilty enough. This is the third Christmas she’s put Lexa on the back burner, and a woman as smart and worldly as Lexa will know next year, if she’s not invited. And what about Gina? What does Gina think when a family as close as the Blakes doesn’t invite her home? 

No. This has to be the last time, because their relationships cannot continue on with the weight of this secret, and because Bellamy and Clarke want different things in life, They can’t keep doing this, even if the road not taken seems so good every time Clarke comes home. What if she hadn’t gone to Harvard? What if she was happy in Arkadia? What if Bellamy didn’t want children and instead they could travel the world together, and find every city thrilling? 

None of those things are options, so Clarke will have to be happy with someone--something else. Lexa’s beautiful, intelligent, funny, dedicated. There’s a career in politics ahead of her and Clarke will be perfect by her side. And Clarke does love her. She does. 

“I do,” Clarke tells her unhappy reflection in the mirror. 

She needs to stop torturing herself, and texts Murphy: “ **Thanks for running interference for me. I owe you something awesome for Christmas.** ” 

“ **You owe me something awesome for putting up with your bullshit all these years,** ” he writes back. “ **But you can make it up to me by telling Raven I’m your bestie, not her**.” 

“ **Uh no. You know how vicious she can be. We’d both be electrocuted.** ” 

She falls asleep thinking of high school, when Murphy was all skin, bones, and sass, and Bellamy was hers, only hers, and she was young enough to believe nothing could change that. 

She’s invited for lunch and board games on Christmas Eve, and Clarke resolves to pretend like everything is fine around Octavia and Aurora. She always figured she was a pretty good actress, but it doesn’t matter at all because Bellamy keeps looking at her with wounded eyes and it’s nearly impossible for her to act normal when she knows he’s hurting. So Aurora’s eyes keep darting between them, and Octavia finally pulls her aside and hisses, “What the fuck is going on with you two?” 

Clarke swallows and admits, “I told him we can’t...be us anymore.” 

Octavia blinks, then sighs, then she scrubs her forehead with her hands like she’s ninety years old and as Lola said, very tired. “I want you both to be happy. And if that means breaking up with your totally suitable significant others, I want you to do that. But if neither of you have any intention of making your relationship with each other long term, then this is for the best.” Clarke nods. “I know that, Octavia. That’s why I told him this is the last time. 

“He really, really loves you. And he’s tried to be happy with just the weekends, but this is breaking him, you know that, right?” 

“I really love him too,” Clarke’s voice hitches, and she suddenly sobs, “Oh, god, tell them I had to go,” and she pushes at the door blindly and runs for her car, starting the engine in a haze and driving blindly. 

She only makes it as far as the parking lot between the high school and the Methodist church, a spot where she and Bellamy used to park after dates and talk for hours, and she turns into a space where she’ll be hidden and puts her head on the wheel and cries. 

And cries. 

And cries. 

And Bellamy pulls in next to her, sits in the passenger seat, strokes her hair. 

“I thought you’d be here,” he says in a husky voice. “Hey, don’t cry, Princess. We’ll be okay.” 

Which has no effect, because his gentleness is only reminding her why she loves him, and why this is breaking her, too. 

“We don’t have to do this,” his voice has an urgency to it that she doesn’t recognize. “We could be together, Clarke. I--I--could break up with Gina.” 

Clarke takes a swipe at her face, retrieves a tissue from the glove compartment. 

“No, we can’t. We can’t be together.” 

“Why the fuck not?” he explodes. “I love you, and you love me! We have so much history--we’ve supported each other through everything. I think about you all the time, and I just don’t understand why we can’t be long distance until you finish grad school. Or I could move? Yeah, I could move, there’s nothing holding me here, I could just visit…” 

“No,” she tries to make her voice steady and cold, fails. “You want to live in Arkadia, be close to your family. You want to get married, have kids, buy a little house that you fix up--Bellamy, I know you. I know your dreams. I can’t give you those things. And it’s a lie to say nothing’s holding you here. Your mom, Octavia, Lola, those things are keeping you here. And now Gina. You can’t dump someone who’ll give you what you want for someone whose life doesn’t line up with yours at all.” 

“Clarke…” he’s quiet, soft. “When I’m with you, I don’t care about any of those things. I’d give them up in a heartbeat, just to have you in my life for good.” 

“You would care. You would care eventually. And I can’t...I can’t break your heart like that. It’d be far worse than this.” Her hair is sticking to her tearstained face, and Bellamy’s got tears running down his cheeks, and she knows she’s wrecking the both of them. 

“Why is it only up to you? Why are you the one who gets to decide? What about me, what about what I want?” His voice raises on every word, until the car is filled with his anger. 

She touches the fabric of his shirt, over his broken heart, whispering miserably. “You’re all heart, Bellamy. You think that loving me is enough. But I’m the head of this operation, and I know it wouldn’t work. The longer this goes on, the more it’ll hurt later.”

__

“Do you think it doesn’t hurt now?” He jerks away from her hand, faces forward. “Do you think you’re not breaking my heart right now?” 

“I’m breaking my own heart right now, too.” 

His mouth twists. “Well, I’m so fucking sorry I loved you so much, for so long, that this isn’t easy for you, Princess,” and all the venom he injects into her nickname makes her so suddenly angry that she can’t see straight. 

“I have to go.” She starts the car. “I’m meeting Aunt Charmaine for midnight mass.” 

“Oh. Of course. ‘Tis the damn season, after all,” bitterness all over his face and in his voice, he doesn’t even look back at her when he slams the door. 

Clarke sees him as she drives away, his head leaned on the steering wheel while his shoulders shake, but she knew before she came and she knows now--this was only ever going to end one way. 

She lied about midnight mass, but she feels like she has to go now, and she calls her aunt to meet her on the church lawn. 

“You want to go to midnight mass? Something must be very wrong,” Charmaine teases, but when Clarke doesn’t reply she immediately says, “Fuck mass. I’ll be there in twenty minutes with a bottle of wine.” 

This is why she’s Clarke’s favorite aunt. 

Clarke spills the whole story over three glasses of wine, crying half the time. Charmaine has very little wisdom to offer but her sympathy is all Clarke wants. As the clock chimes to let them know that Christmas Eve is bleeding into Christmas Day, Diyoza gives Clarke one last hug. 

“I know you think that you’re making the right decision because it’s the smart choice, but relationships are about heart, too. You’re telling yourself that Bellamy could never be happy with you because of his dreams is unfair to him. It seems like all of his dreams start with you.” 

Clarke nods. “I’ll think about that.” 

“Merry Christmas, favorite niece.” 

“Back atcha, favorite aunt. Sorry I made you miss mass.” 

“You’re way more important to me than mass.” She chucks Clarke under her chin. 

Clarke digs out her favorite sweatshirt--it’s Bellamy’s, and almost hits her knees--and pulls her hair up in a bun for bed. She’s laying in the dark when her phone buzzes. She prays it’s not Lexa. 

It’s Bellamy: **“You still up?”**

It takes her a minute to decide how to respond. “ **Yeah**.” 

“ **Can I come over?** ” 

“ **You’re not playing board games until 2 in the morning this year?** ” 

“ **O drank too much wine and knocked out early.** ” 

“ **You can come over.** ” 

“ **Good, because I’m outside.** ” 

She runs down the stairs to let him in, still in the sweatshirt, and he looks at her like she’s made of gold. 

“Just for tonight?” he asks, and opens his arms to her. She jumps into them, wrapping her legs around his hips, and he gives a little groan. 

“Just for tonight,” and he takes her up the stairs, lays her down, and she peels off her clothes. He breathes in, running his fingers lightly over her ribs. 

And they own each other, just for tonight. 

They only get a few hours of sleep, tangled together. It’s seven in the morning when he wakes her up. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Octavia just texted me and she’s mad as hell I’m not there to open presents, so I’ve got to go." 

She nods, and sets her face into something pleasant. She doesn’t want to say goodbye angry. 

“Clarke...can we...talk about this again? When we’re both not so upset?” 

Her chin buckles and she crawls away from him, across the bed. “No, Bellamy, I don’t think so. This is for the best.” 

Charmaine’s voice plays in her head: _All of his dreams start with you._

“Well, I fucking don’t think it’s for the best. And I love you. I’m part of this relationship. Don’t I get a say in where we’re headed?” 

“I can’t…” 

“Everything I’ve wanted in my entire life begins and ends with you.” 

She puts her arms around him, kisses his check, buries her head in his neck, drinking him in. 

“I love you, Bellamy. Don’t forget it. This is because I love you.” 

“You’re somehow the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me,” he chokes out. “I love you and I hate you for it, right now.” 

She nods against his shoulderblade. “I hate myself right now, too.” 

He pushes her away gently, wiping his eyes, and runs down the stairs. 

She sits in his sweatshirt, crying again. 

She didn’t know she was capable of crying so damn much. 

Murphy calls at 8. 

“Listen, Snotty Bitch--” his pet name for Lexa, “--just called me and demanded to speak to you.” 

“What’d you say?” She doesn’t really care, but the amount of sass Murphy gives to Lexa is often entertaining. 

“I told her you were asleep, and even if you weren’t asleep, you don’t want to talk to her.” 

“Bless you.” But her voice doesn’t hold any gratitude. Or anything at all. She feels dead inside. 

Murphy’s voice gets softer, kinder, a side of himself he doesn’t often show. “How’s Bellamy?” 

“Murphy, for God’s sake, I _just_ stopped crying. I don't want to talk about it." 

“So you did what you went there to do?” 

“Yeah,” she huffs, “and it was awful and I want to die so can we talk about it another time?” 

“Okay, then you should come home.” 

“I am home.” 

“No, back to Cambridge. Your actual home. If you pack fast enough you can be here for Christmas lunch, and it’s going to be epic, if I do say so myself.” 

“Murphy, I don’t want--” 

“I’m not taking no for an answer. You need to be with family, and your family’s going to be at my place, eating the best ham you’ve ever tasted. Besides, Emori’s giving me the eyes.” 

“Which eyes are those?” Clarke’s already hauled out the suitcase she brought with her and is throwing clothes into it. 

“The eyes that say if you’re not here in two hours, we’re coming to haul you out of there ourselves. And I don’t want to do that, because I’m busy being a killer chef, so do me a solid, Griffin, and hurry the hell up.” 

“See you soon, then.” 

“Hey, Merry fucking Christmas.” 

He’s already hung up, and Clarke packs her toiletries and slides into a pair of jeans, runs down the stairs with her Converse in one hand and luggage in the other, and she throws the door open to find Bellamy standing next to his Rover, talking on the phone. She loads her car up while giving him a head tilt of confusion, walks down the driveway to ask why he’s still there when he said he was leaving an hour ago. 

He says into the phone, “I know it’s Christmas. But I have to be honest with you. It’s tearing me up inside.” 

Clarke freezes. He can only be talking to Gina. And she can only imagine how devastated the other woman must be. 

The other woman? No, Clarke’s the other woman. Right? 

Or has every person Bellamy’s dated since their breakup been the other woman or man? 

She’s close enough that she can hear Gina’s voice, tinny through the speaker: “It’s okay, Bellamy, you just have really awful timing. A Christmas breakup? I would have never taken you to be that kind of guy.” 

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Bellamy replies, his fingers curling and uncurling against the car door. 

“Well, that’s clear,” she says, and there’s something in her soft voice that says she knows perfectly well what kind of guy he is, and maybe she expected something like this all along. 

Just not on Christmas. 

Clarke leans her hip against the cold metal, still in Bellamy’s sweatshirt, face still swollen from their morning goodbye. He keeps apologizing, and Gina keeps saying it’s okay, and finally he hangs up to meet Clarke’s eyes. 

“What in the fuck are you doing?” Clarke rubs her arms to keep warm. “Like what exactly? Gina can give you the life you want, and you just throw that away--? Throw away your dreams?” 

“She can’t give me the life I want because the life I want is with you! Literally there is nothing else on the table--kids, the house in Arkadia, a dog--none of that means anything to me if it’s with someone who isn’t you!" 

Clarke’s bottom lip starts to quiver. “That’s not fair, Bellamy. You think it’s enough now, because we’re young. In ten years, you’re going to be sitting in some lavish apartment thinking about how much you wish you were here--with a girl who would be a happy homemaker, a kindergarten teacher--” She breaks off, and he grabs her arms. 

“Shut up for a minute. You made your speech, now I'm going to make mine. Your ideas about my dreams, they're not true. You decided it’s true because you’re afraid it might be true and you don’t want to get hurt that way, or hurt me that way, but, Clarke, I would live a thousand lifetimes without that kid or that dog or a stupid fixer-upper house if I got to be with you. And anyway, those were my dreams when I was eighteen and I didn’t know how the world worked. Those were my dreams before you left, and they were my dreams when you were gone and I thought I could convince you to come home.” He strokes her cheek, her jaw. “You haven’t asked me what my dreams are in years. You just decided that you couldn’t be in them, and that’s bullshit. 

Clarke’s dizzy with the weight of what he’s just said. Only his hands are keeping her upright. 

“The only reason I haven’t asked you to get back together is because I thought you were happy in Cambridge. With Lexa.” Goddamn Octavia, for spilling Clarke’s secrets. “But...I don’t think you are anymore, and I called Murphy when I left here--I’m sorry but I needed to know before I blew up my life--" 

“That shit, he didn’t tell me he talked to you.” 

“Clarke, please--” 

"I can't be the reason you're not happy." 

"Well, right now you are! Goddamnit Clarke, don't you hear what I'm saying? You're obsessed with dreams I don't even have. I don't care about any of that stuff. I just care about being with you, making a life with you. I can teach history anywhere. I can visit Arkadia to see my family anytime. Those are the only two things I really need, as long as I have you, and you're ignoring me because you're afraid of getting hurt--" 

“Bellamy.” She puts a finger over his lips, “Bellamy, do you want to come to Cambridge with me, for Christmas dinner?” 

He couldn’t tell her no if he wanted to, her face is so open, for the first time in years she hears him. 

"Right at this moment, I can't think of anything I want more." 

“On the way, you can tell me your dreams, and I swear, I'll listen. I'll believe you.” 

“You’re the dream, Clarke,” he pulls her close, drowns her in a kiss. “You’ve always been the dream.” 

And they own each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I tried SO HARD to give this a sad and melancholy ending. I really did. I swear. But I just couldn't do it! I told my beta reader that I was going to make it a sad, open ending and she said, "Dear God, why? It's sad enough as it is!" And I said "thank you for the validation" and made it happy, a new beginning. The last year has been so doom and gloom. We deserve happy endings.


End file.
